Wyrden Updates:(Book One Finished: 12 May)

[Witcher Wolf]

I have a deep respect for Tolkien and his work, he is the grandfather of modern fantasy but the problem is there are only so many iterations of that model.

The first thing I look for for instance if I am reading fan-fics or at least short stories, is something that alters the genre in a way - even if someone has put elves in their book I don't mind as long as those elves aren't mirrors of the Tolkien ones.

And the worst thing you can do is actually call them: elves.

Wyrden itself will be an interesting novel series to write because it will evolve, not only the characters. But the world and even the core city itself will alter over the 3 books.

[TheMacroprosopus]

The idea of the world changing sounds really cool! I really can't wait to read this.

[Witcher Wolf]

A very small excerpt from chapter one.

Chapter One: Red roses for past misdeeds

The howl of a fierce north wind charged across the road and tugged with an angry finger at the flap of a broken-down covered wagon. It had a shard of wood missing from one of the wheels and was skewed half way across a dirt track, just shy of a small encampment where six cloaked and hooded men struggled to keep out of the weather.

“It is a miserable day that begs I find someone to kill, just to make me feel better.” A tall balding heavy set man with hardened blue eyes and a day’s growth of beard spoke out at the roadside, the rain battered down from a grey and wan sky running into furrow and track where their horse stood champing at his bit.

The woman with him spoke in a chiding tone. “Calm yourself, Josef. You’ll scare folk; I know you’re not serious.” She patted the skittish horse. “You’ll scare Anfalan too, what’ll we do if he runs off?”

“It is this damnable weather, Gwen, it drives me to distraction and the cold buries itself deep in my bones.”

Gwen Haldry gave a deep exasperated sigh and put her hands on her hips; she was a plain but comely woman with short black hair and deep hazel eyes. The rain had half-soaked her green dress and the bottom of it was coloured a dirty brown where it trailed in the mud.

“Oh hush now, a little bit of wet never killed a man yet.”

A tall slender woman regarded both the husband and his lady with amber eyes. She licked her lips and brushed back a shock of red hair from her face, revealing elegant cheekbones and pointed ears. “You want to be careful there, m’ducks.” She began walking over to them. “People round here don’t take kindly to being threatened with death and all.”

Josef turned on his heel and strode to stand before his wife, shielding her from the approaching woman. “What do you want, treefer.” The woman was kelanari. He snorted a cold breath of air and spat on the ground. “I’d would prefer it if you stopped there, creature of the forest. Your kind is naught but bad luck.”

Josef looked at the foreigner; her attire was of dark colours and made from silk and velvet. She didn’t bother with a cloak but a small neatly trimmed tunic crafted from light leather rested over her slender upper frame. The left shoulder had light plating with a metal disc that bore the mark of a snarling wolf’s head, teeth bared.

Amber bristled inwardly at the man and snorted just once fixing him with a look that could have frozen the air.

“Oh that’s a pretty welcome coming from a man who wanted to find someone to kill. I’m not the one making threats to folk they’ve never even met before. You want to share this camp, you do so quietly and without trouble.” Her tone changed and she flounced back towards a small shielded fire. Here she sat, giving both Josef and Gwen a terrible stare.

“Husband!” Gwen admonished, which drew amused laughter from some of the men by the fire; they looked rough types and could have been ex-soldiers or mercenaries. “You go over there right now and you apologise.” Like many of the common folk of Hestonia, she lived in fear of anything non-human; the stories of the kelanari were frightening tales that her father had used to keep her in line when she was a child.

With a shrug Josef turned from his wife and pulled on the cart sullenly. He would be damned if he was going to go over to a mumbling treefer and say sorry. Josef was that kind of man; he’d rather be cursed from here to the ends of the earth than admit he acted out of haste, anger or was simply: wrong.

Gwen gave her man a cold glare and strode over to the kelan by the fire. She coughed a little to get the other woman’s attention and then said timidly. “I am sorry for my husband. He’s a good man. Please don’t think badly of him.”

“Oh, I don’t,” the kelan chirped and shook her head. “I am not thinking of that oaf at all. You try and give good advice and what do you get in return? Well, when he says that to the wrong person and they gut him and you for it – who’ll be laughing then, eh?” Then as an afterthought and with a bright smile she added. “No offence, the name is Amber. Have a good life.”

“I am sorry.” Gwen replied. She went back to her cart, climbed in and lay amongst the blankets and small goods. She heard her husband clatter outside and curse a few times, he banged on their damaged wheel and then followed her inside.

“It’s no good. I am no carpenter and I have no tools to fix it, Gwen. It looks like we’re going to have to walk to the village. It’s only two days and we can wait until the rain stops.” He looked down at her and made to touch her hair.

She reacted violently to that and shoved him away. “I’ll think about it.” Gwen was not happy and it came off her in burning whispers of temper. She narrowed her pretty hazel eyes and thrust her head against a pillow. “You’d best get some sleep and perhaps you’ll wake up a better man.”

Josef sat back sullen-faced in the cart and pulled his heavy coat around him Water dripped in and down part of the covered roof, which fortunately held against the torrent. He put his head in his lap and curled into a ball; the chill of the weather reached right to his bones.

The mercenaries outside were having an animated conversation regarding the cart, of course; it had goods and they were not the best men to be stranded near. They were eyeing it with the look of bored warriors, blood thirsty veterans of skirmish after skirmish. Amber caught fragments of their talk and frowned a little, she might not like the man or woman but their deaths wouldn’t really please her.

[Witcher Wolf]

The fire began to burn low so the kelan woman put a log on it. Just as she was about to draw her hand back one of the drunken men slurred into her ear.

“Hey. Do you want to make yourself scarce a bit with me?”

“Excuse me?” She blinked just the once and her jaw flicked downwards slightly agape.

“You heard.” He belched slightly and gave the woman a gap-toothed smile. “There’s a lot of us and only one of you. We’ve been thinking…we have.”

“That must have taxed a lot of your head to do that, imagine – all that thinking?” The kelan snorted a laugh. “I can see the smoke from here.”

“Are you trying to be funny? What’s a little treefer like you going to do against, the six of us?” The drunken male turned his head to look at his companions. He turned it back and her fist, complete with knuckle-duster made of sharp metal, impacted with his nose and punctured the skin in six places.

“That does it!” she screamed. “I’m going to kill the next person that calls me a treefer!”

The drunken man staggered backwards and tried to free his short sword from his scabbard. He toppled over a pot and landed on his back. He flailed his arms, much to the merriment of his companions, who shook their heads and turned back to their drink and talk.

Amber was furious and it showed. She leapt upon him and pinned him to the ground. “You want to be mounted do you, you like that – want some more?”

This turn of events aroused him and in his stupor he foolishly said. “Yes, give it to me, treefer.” He felt the crotch of his leggings tighten against hers and fumbled for his belt. “I want it all!”

The kelan gave him a wicked little wan-smile and drove the punch dagger down into his face six times, one for each of the men gathered there. The first blow shattered his nose and part of the bone was sent flying upwards into the soft part of his brain, blood splattered upwards and over the woman’s skin.

“I told you not to call me a treefer!” She hissed and leapt upwards to meet any more threats. Her eyes were wild and she drew the attention of the remaining five men.

“What the hell’s…?” The tallest of them, obviously the leader stepped away from the rest of his men and looked at the battered corpse on the floor. “Oh, you’re going to pay for that bitch.”

“Do I have to kill every single one of you filth-spawned, harlot humping jackals?” Amber clenched her fist and bared her teeth. “Come on then, let’s finish this and I’ll show you how a real woman fights.”

The men could scarcely believe their ears, but the hellcat before them stood her ground as they fanned out, weapons ready – to the over-confident men they had an easy prey and it would be over quickly.

“Where do you want your body dumping?” The leader snorted and snapped out a pair of lethal looking curved swords.

“I don’t intend to be the one that dies maggot.”

“Brave words for someone that’s about to fall.” Another mercenary spat on the floor. “I say we knock her cold, sell her to the slave pits.”

“Death is the only way for this one.” The leader said coldly and started to flank the lithe woman, tapping his one sword off the other. “Cut her down to size, men.”

The rain seemed to match the mood of the small camp as Gwen and Josef, oblivious to the battle about to take place slumbered in the grip of Lady Nightshade’s foulest weave; the Dreamstalker curled her cat’s cradle of nightmares about them both.

Lord Rhage held sway here over all save Amber. Her anger came not from him but from deep within the kelanari, part of her soul that the demon could not touch – this was the first spark of rebellion and it went unnoticed in the revel to come.

The kelan woman was dressed for a quick battle; she did not wear armour or seem to possess that many weapons, but there was something in her stance that should have warned the men; they were being toyed with right from the start. There was more to Amber than first met the eye; her steps were those of a dancer but her eyes were those of a killer.


She flashed the men a quick smile and slipped the knuckle-duster from her hand to pocket it, blood and all. This was a signal for one of her adversaries to charge her, screaming and driving his sword into a full blown lunge.

Only seconds separate the victor from the dead in a melee. Amber went flat, sliding up and between the man’s legs as he charged. As she passed through, she turned her body slightly and smacked outwards with her elbows, this caused the mercenary to pitch forwards and stumble nearly dropping his blade.

She felt the pain of the impact, but sprang nimbly back onto her feet, grinning. The first assailant managed to stop his forward momentum, and growled in the back of his throat. He swore and turned again, only to find that the kelan was upon him, kicking out with her heel. He raised his sword to defend and clearly noticed too late that Amber’s boots had armoured plates upon the side and metal parts to the heel. Her sweeping foot opened his jugular with a single strike. The man went wide-eyed and dropped his sword, scrabbling at his throat.

“Four,” Amber chirped. She drew out a pair of curved slightly serrated daggers and uttered a fierce warrior cry. The men rushed forward. It amused the kelan that they tried to out-think and out-move her but her ferocious style and no-holds barred technique took them by surprise. She knew they had been expecting an easy kill, but Amber wasn’t about to go to hell just yet. She knew full well that if she didn’t put her all into this fight, it would be her last. She opened throats and cut deeply with her two curved blades, slicing with one and parrying with the other, until her three assailants lay dead.

The leader of the band watched the massacre of his men until he stood alone, virtually quaking in his boots, “What manner of beast are you?” he snapped. Amber could tell that pride and a stubborn heart drove him to remain and stand his ground – but she also knew his stomach churned and his resolve faltered.

She bowed to him. “I am a kelan warrior born in the forests, what you people call a treefer.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘That term really gets under our skin, so I decided to get under yours. You did this! You thought I’d be an easy kill or an easy lay…’ She shrugged. ‘As you can see, I am neither.’ She could hear in her voice that the tone of a mocking high-born kelan, one of the people that she tried to distance herself from, but she wanted to rankle this man into doing something stupid.

“The fight’s not over yet, treefer!” The leader shook his head. “Had you left Kril alive we might not have come to this.”

“Oh don’t make excuses, human.” Amber spat and turned her back for a moment, putting even more of a challenge to the man. “You would have raped me and left me for dead or sold me as a slave and murdered those two in the cart – rather than look at us.”

He lowered his head. “Shall we end this?”

“Goodbye…” She turned in one fluid motion and with the spin her right hand stretched forth, a glittering object flew from outstretched fingers and the throwing knife found its mark directly in the man’s throat. “I was never one for beating around the bush.”

She watched the body fall to the ground with a detached kind of air, then walked over to his still twitching body and wrenched the knife from his throat. She cleaned the blade on his clothes and tucked it away in one of her many hidden scabbards.

“Idiot.” She spat again and turned her attention towards the cart after heading over to the back where a few supplies were stored she secured a small shovel. Then she moved off to the side of the camp and began to dig. She dug for many hours, as the sky turned from grey to black and stars twinkled brightly up above.

Dirt-flecked and sweat–streaked, Amber let out a long sigh as the last of the graves were dug, one for each of the six men that she’d had to slaughter because they chose poorly to attack her. Part of her hoped that one day she might actually meet someone with a little refinement, who didn’t think with his loins, and who actually had some semblance of manners.

Before lugging the men into their graves, she stripped them of their equipment and useful gear, which she deposited in several small piles at the back of the cart. There, as the rain started to pour heavier and heavier, she knelt down, using part of the wagon as a wind-breaker and sifted through her spoils.

There wasn’t much of useful value apart from the weapons and a little jewellery; she could sell them for the right price at the local village. Crow’s Foot was only a couple of days away to the east and there was a reputable smith there, who wouldn’t ask any questions – this put a slight smile back onto her face and she started to load the best items, such as rings and various trinkets, into a pack.

Her sharp ears picked up the sound of an approaching horse; there was a steady ‘sloshing’ clop as it came through the wall of hazy rain.

She tried to discern the approaching traveller, moving further into the cover of the cart, sliding onto her belly beneath it. There she could watch as the slow moving creature and rider passed by.

And that's your lot...

[TheMacroprosopus]

Dammit!!! I'm gonna go nuts now, cuz I can't read the rest.

As it stands, I think that this is officially gonna do what I told ya it would, Wolf. It's gonna blow the world away. Rock their socks and such. Amazing.

[MisterAnderson]

What a tease! ;D

I'd be very surprised if the fantasy-loving community out there doesn't absolutely lap your stuff up & lick the bowl clean afterwards...

[Witcher Wolf]

I really hope so Mr. A

[Witcher Wolf]

Well today folks marks a turning point for me in the book, we are t-minus 18 pages from 200. 38,855 words

[Beefie]

ClericWolf said:

Well today folks marks a turning point for me in the book, we are t-minus 18 pages from 200. 38,855 words

Whoa!!!!!

Way to go Wolf. ;D

What are you still doing here reading this...?? You should be at least t-minus 16 pages from 200' now... go on .... get....

BTW: I know, I know (I can feel you breathing down my neck). I've got sooo much reading to catch up on. Still got Cross to read, oh yeah and Whisper City - Chapter One. You just have too much talent if you can real off all these stories at once I'm never going to get Awakenings finished at this rate.

Seriously - keep it up Wolf, loving every minute of it. ;D

[Witcher Wolf]

Ok. I am t-minus 9 pages from 200 and have broken the 40,000 word barrier on book one in a very short amount of time.

W00t!

[aka Jack Torrence]

I seriously can't get my head around the speed at which you're writing, Wolf. How the hell do you do it without compromising the quality of what you write? That's really impressive. I mean as far as voluminosity goes, it looks like you're out-Clancying Tom Clancy!

When I write, it takes me about 2 hours just to get one page, and then I have to spend another hour just rewriting it (if I keep it at all)!

[NateP]

MUST...........................BUY...............................BOOKS
;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D


Sir Wolf..... Your skills are excellent, and as soon as possible, I'm preordering the books. I'm kinda curious though, would you ever have a book signing tour? If so, would it be international? I agree with everyone else.... Your newness to the genre will bring huge changes, in the way people look at fantasy. Please, continue soon! As for that exerpt, I loved it. In such a short time, i could almost see myself as a witness to the taunts, rain, the fight, and then see her burying all of the men. Very few other authors I've ever read can do that in, what, a few dozen paragraphs? Tis an honor reading the work, before anyone else...... ;D Two thumbs up!

[MisterAnderson]

ClericWolf said:

Ok. I am t-minus 9 pages from 200 and have broken the 40,000 word barrier on book one in a very short amount of time.

W00t!

"Its the final count - down..."

*insert cheesy electronic keyboard riff*

;D

Congrats Wolfy, I've said it before & I'll say it again - you're a machine!

[Witcher Wolf]

aka said:

I seriously can't get my head around the speed at which you're writing, Wolf. How the hell do you do it without compromising the quality of what you write? That's really impressive. I mean as far as voluminosity goes, it looks like you're out-Clancying Tom Clancy!

When I write, it takes me about 2 hours just to get one page, and then I have to spend another hour just rewriting it (if I keep it at all)!

I have spurts where I can write huge amounts of something, this is the biggest thing I have ever written and far surpasses anything else I have ever done. In terms of scope, design and concept - it's a challenge to try and bring something new to the genre without resorting to the tried and tested cliches.

I suppose in a way thought it helps that I am dealing with very mature content, yes there's violence, sex and demons. For the first time as far as I know these fantasy demons have not existed to be the focus of the heroes' blade.

Each one has a reason and a purpose for their existance, rather like the heroes of the book. I think the proper answer to writing the whole thing without compromising the quality is that I want to tell the story, I want to change the genre and I don't care if I get flak over doing so.

Fantasy as it stands at the moment is a big joke in a literary sense.

[Witcher Wolf]

NateP said:

MUST...........................BUY...............................BOOKS
;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D


Sir Wolf..... Your skills are excellent, and as soon as possible, I'm preordering the books. I'm kinda curious though, would you ever have a book signing tour? If so, would it be international? I agree with everyone else.... Your newness to the genre will bring huge changes, in the way people look at fantasy. Please, continue soon! As for that exerpt, I loved it. In such a short time, i could almost see myself as a witness to the taunts, rain, the fight, and then see her burying all of the men. Very few other authors I've ever read can do that in, what, a few dozen paragraphs? Tis an honor reading the work, before anyone else...... ;D Two thumbs up!

I actually never used to think of my skills as anything more than mediocre. It is thanks to this website and the feedback people have given me, plus urging from Storm Constantine and her people from Immanion Press (Who are also my friends) that has given me the push to actually write professionally.

I have done game things in the past and roleplaying books, but they're really different compared to actually trying to tell a coherant story - let alone one that will span 3 novels.

I am glad you liked the small excerpt. I want to really get the core of the book down as quickly as possible, then things can be edited/changed or just tweaked as desired by my editor (Storm herself).

As for a signing tour, well, we'll see how the books go. I would have loved to make it to LunaCon this year, but perhaps next.

[Witcher Wolf]

MisterAnderson said:

"Its the final count - down..."

*insert cheesy electronic keyboard riff*

;D

Congrats Wolfy, I've said it before & I'll say it again - you're a machine!

I would say that depending on the size of the first book, 300 or 400 pages I'm about 1/2 way there heh.

[Witcher Wolf]

Today's update: Chapter 10 brings the book now closer to the 50,000 word mark. Today so far, 8,792 words

[Witcher Wolf]

Today I am having a bit of a break day in one respect. Considering I have actually worked out over the past 2-3 days my word count has been 29,000 words.

[NateP]

in the words of Neo..................




whoa

[Witcher Wolf]

Today's word count: 3,000: we have broken the 50,000 word mark ;D

[Witcher Wolf]

Ok. Update: Just finished Chapter 11 and now moving onto Chapter 12.

Current word count today: over 7,000 words.

Current word count in total: over 57,000 already.

[bikemama]

Go on, Wolfy, we're with you!

[Witcher Wolf]

64,844 words is the proper count. I tallied up what I have so far, going to try and do 3-9,000 words today.

[Witcher Wolf]

68,338 words brings me to my 300 page mark.

The last leg of the journey begins now.

[Witcher Wolf]

Final update for today word count: 72,641 words.

Now I wonder if I should post another sample *G*?

[Libby]

Are you playing with us Cleric?

[NateP]

ever the Wolf, toying with his prey like that........ Of Course you should post another sample!!!! Still haulin on that writing too I see..... Sheesh, at this rate you'll have the book "done" in about a week!!

[Witcher Wolf]

From---Chapter Eight: The grey right hand of Akas

As the Mist Reaver continued her five day journey towards the city of Wyrden, the servant of the Bloodless One had already appeared on Hadden’s shores, he had taken the guise of a simple fence, believing that this afforded him the best opportunity to learn more about the human and other occupants of this bustling throng of activity.

Wyrden was a trade port that sat like a beady-eyed crow on the south western inlet of the small province of Turvan. It had begun life as a small hamlet taking an interest in the various fishing ships that often took to their humble docks as vicious storms plagued the Sea of Aden all year round.

Slowly over time as trade and commerce began to flood the region the small hamlet spread into a tiny village and then suddenly over the last few years, since Akas broke free many people sought to escape Vikart and found their way to the growing shades and shadows of Wyrden itself.

This population expansion had brought with it Wyrden’s new mayor and ruler, Gustav Gendavit who narrowly escaped death in a Melanchan prison. The man had been thrown into the dark iron cells because he decided to embezzle funds from the king’s treasury, how he avoided execution no one knew but some guards rumoured a woman in a dark cloak visited the warden and the day after the man was freed.

The various lines of enquiry from Imperior inquisitors lead to a dead trail of parchment and in some cases a dead inquisitor or two, after a small amount time the whole sordid affair was forgotten and Gustav was smuggled out of Vikart and sent to rule Wyrden where his mysterious benefactors hoped he wouldn’t do the same.

He had proven to be a wise choice as mayor and he had brought a great deal of extra trade into the city. Of course his benefactors didn’t know his sources of the trade, such as mercenary guilds, sell-sword schools and various nefarious sea going gentlefolk of a dubious moral nature – often known as pirates.

If they had known just who his contacts were it is likely they wouldn’t have cared since they had but one purpose in securing the man’s position in Wyrden. They had asked him for one favour alone, that they were to keep a portion of the city to their own where only their folk may go – he was to send no guards into that place and he was to turn a blind eye to all that happened.

Gustav owed them his life and could do nothing short but agree to these terms. So the Anshada established their claws into Wyrden and took a quarter of the city as their own and true to his word not a single soul entered that place day or night.

With the presence of these secretive and manipulative people the city began to prosper as more and more traders found it to be to their liking, Gustav relished in the golden ikons that flowed like cheap beer in the local taverns and was blind to the truth.

His city was a murderous place in the shadows, more so than any other city and very often his own guards refused to intercede – some out of fear and some because the swell of ikons against their thigh was more comforting than the thought of breaking a few heads to restore order.

They were wise in many ways because open war raged in those streets between rival gangs, those that sought to take a slice of the lucrative pie that brought with it many rewards.

A guard’s life in Wyrden was one of constant threat and danger, most of them kept to the brightly lit streets at night and the clever ones remained in the barracks. This of course was no guarantee of their safety as many a guardsman had been drawn out of their bunk and had their throat slit because they looked at a thug the wrong way.

Yet for some reason the city kept on expanding, perhaps it was the constant flow-through of new rich pickings or the actions of a brave few sell-swords that kept some of the more ruthless gangs in check, but the balance in the port city was unstable at best.

Those like Talon Mane who had a reputation and presence were often feared by even the worst of the gang members, but those who looked to make a name for themselves were considered fresh meat and easily fed into the grinder that were the alleys and back streets of Wyrden.

The sun died like a gasping dog on the horizon bleeding out the last few rays of its life over the shreds of clouds. It stained them crimson before it gave up and slipped off in a daze.

Darkness picked at the streets like a carrion bird spilling long shadows across the cobbles, lurking in alleys and sliding across rooftops. The night appeared like a living creature and hungrily devoured all traces of humanity – casting Wyrden into a different shape, a horrific one that dominated the hours until the dawning of a new day.

Wyrden by daylight was dangerous but by night it transformed into a twisted parody of itself. The mayor had no idea what the presence of the Anshada had done to his trade port but as the shadows grew in length and severity – so the barrier between the demon world and the mortal world became thinner.

A few hours later when the darkness’ grip was at its strongest and even the street lanterns of the port city struggled to illuminate a foot in front of them, a howling wind birthed the first of tonight’s deaths as a man was torn into shreds by invisible claws and teeth, collapsing in a ragged doll-like mass on the floor.

Moments later a street vendor that wandered out of his building slamming the shutters of his shop was hoisted into the air and hurled through a wooden fence, his body pierced by a sudden spike of metal that moved by unseen fingers to greet him with a final pointed stroke.

[Witcher Wolf]

From Chapter Ten: In the footsteps of madness

Josef felt the heat upon his skin and the pull of the Shaper against his soul already, the mad god hungrily lapped at the man’s spirit seeking to snuff it out. He took several breaths as his heart lurched again, as if claws tried to pierce the outer fleshy walls.

“What you sense and feel Josef…” Marisa began but he cut her off with a grunt.

“Is the Shaper trying to claim me already?”

“Correct.” Her voice was colder than a harsh north wind. “Do you give in to him?”

“Never!”

Tendrils of dark energy tried to wrap around Josef’s being and draw away his soul; he thrashed his head from side to side against the numbing pain and bit his lip until blood flowed freely.

“You can’t have me!” He bellowed and roared defiantly to the insane landscape, the black tendrils whipped at his skin and cut it deeply.

Marisa could not intervene and she watched the man battling the energy of the mad god, as it tried to tear him limb from limb and sate an impossible yawning hunger with his soul.

In defence Josef’s mind whirled all of its own, he pulled at the threads that assaulted him and shoved them away. Again they returned to beat at the man with horrific intent, slashing him across the throat but only drawing a tiny trickle of blood this time.

He was getting stronger.

He stood from his seated posture and began to flail his arms; again Marisa couldn’t hope to help him. If she did the Shaper would likely consume her soul so she was forced to watch almost detached as the man fought for his life.

It was not long before her weave attuned eyes picked up the threads being formed around her student. Josef was pulling the weave of the world about him as though he were one of the elder spirits; she took a sudden stuttering breath and flexed her fingers.

Josef’s innate mastery of this difficult pattern was compelling and she watched it form in seconds, threads of all colours and denominations, those that a mere apprentice could not hope to grasp in a hundred years of training slipped into his fingers as if they were already meant to be there.

The Shaper’s tendrils began to slam against an invisible wall of force instead of the bleeding student. Josef screamed out in frustration and his mind coiled around the Shaper’s own threads, pulling at them as if to sunder the tapestry of his creation.

Marisa watched as eddies of power crackled between Josef and the lunatic god. The man’s bloody-minded spirit driven by revenge so strong formed an impossible pattern in the ethereal winds; it shone with the light of creation and destruction.

Yet the Shaper pushed against his defences with all his power, latching onto the tapestry and trying to rend it to get to the powerful soul beneath, it was driving the god to desperate lengths and the whole demon world sensed this sudden unexpected battle.

Even Akas on his throne paused for a moment in his contemplations and stared wide eyed at the pool of blood he used to scry destiny and outwit fate.

Smoke rose from it and the battle was revealed in the crimson depths, he felt a twinge of respect for the mortal man doomed before him.

But Josef was far from beaten as he subconsciously drew out the hidden threads that only demons could touch and mould, he pulled them into his eyes and their colour darkened until they were as black as Marisa’s robes.

Marisa could not believe what she saw and remained rooted to the spot as this impossible turn of events played out a breath away from her trembling body. The energy that crackled around the demon plane broke parts of it into shards and sent them off into the ether in a slow spin.

The weave flowed like water in Josef’s mental hands and he continued to work upon his tapestry, winding the threads of power as easily as a child could play cat’s cradle. The shape was complex and even Marisa with her knowledge could not understand parts of it, the madness that burned brightly in her soul helped her at least remain alive when she looked into the hidden depths of the tapestry.

“By the elders!” She whispered and fell silent again as another section of the floor drifted up into the crackling sky, only to be blown apart by a snatching tendril of black insanity from the Shaper.

The elder spirits of the Anshada had already understood the human’s potential and they were wise enough not to challenge him, they had been waiting for a man like Josef for some time and knew that if they stayed their hand – it would lead to greater things. Marisa’s student was something of a catalyst.

With a last ditch attempt to break the man and his magic the Shaper summoned up one final assault, drawing almost all of his power into one strike and lashing out to pierce through the barrier and into Josef’s heart.

It failed and broke upon the mystical shield as if it were pottery hurled against the wall. Josef took the final thread of his magic and pulled at it, as he did so he wound the Shaper’s tendril into the weave he’d wrought and uttered a cry of triumph.

The whole pattern shuddered with a violent cosmic outburst; the very fabric of creation came undone for a moment and then whipped back together. The energy unleashed from this ‘weave’ thundered into the god and turned the dark shadow into a bright pyre of screaming soul-rending agony.

It could not destroy him for he was bound to the very magic of the world, but this was to teach the Shaper a valuable lesson. As part of the god’s power was torn from him and thrust down the tapestry’s threads and into Josef’s eyes, a normal man would have been killed instantly and his brain steamed from his ears, but Josef had control.

He countered the backlash of the pattern and snubbed the energy sending it back along the conduit and into the Shaper again, the result was like a physical blow and slammed the mad god’s form out of the plane and back to his own home.

Marisa saw the wings of dark energy drift around Josef for a moment before they broke into falling feathers of magic, to drift away and swirl into nothing. He stood there as if he’d hardly broken a sweat and it set her to wondering what manner of man he really was.

All across the face of Hestonia this moment was recorded in liquid time as everyone felt the sudden shift in the fabric of the world; those that were conducting experiments in the Anshada’s domain sensed a balance whip madly to one side and then settle again.

Even Talon Mane felt a cold shiver pass over him as he prepared to scour the port city for likely sources of information or allies.

Akas watched his pool of blood explode upwards in a fountain of bubbling red, like a gruesome geyser it reached his ceiling and he raised a dark brow.

“Interesting…”

Marisa remained on the floor of the plane and just looked at her student, the power he had summoned burned brightly around him and he raised his hands to look at them, there were magical sigils burned into the flesh of his palm, they ran all over his fingers and from what she could see they covered his arms.

Josef was far distant and lurked between the demon world and the planes of immortality; he heard the whispers of the cosmos and saw the bright temples of the gods where they in turn noted him. Part of the Shaper’s essence had infected the man and the result would be unknown for a long time to come.

The physical manifestation was evident however and Marisa beheld mystical writings that burned into his skin, forming smoke as they appeared. The tapestry he had woven now formed part of him so he was a living, breathing copy of it.

“Josef.” She said weakly after the power subsided enough for her to even speak. “Can you hear me?”

He said nothing to her for a moment and then his head turned, where his once human eyes had been were black orbs, the opposite of her own milk white eyes. His face was a mask of symbols and patterns; they covered every inch of his body now.

Note: You're getting this raw w/out editing.

[DeadCleric]

Fantastic! Very exciting indeed ;D